


Can I Try Again? And Again?

by Sybariticfanfiction (SybariticReyna)



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Timeframe bc i'm lazy, Bittersweet?, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mid Apocalypse Is Great Time For Romance, Mid-Canon, Multi, Other, Pining, Short & Sweet, the title is from pink in the night take that as what u will, those can coexist if youre not a coward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybariticReyna/pseuds/Sybariticfanfiction
Summary: a snapshot from mid-canon, if War & the human didnt have the slowest burn romance known to man.





	Can I Try Again? And Again?

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for food/marshmallows and vague allusions to violence + the watcher in general is. weird. i love it but its Weird

Apocalyptic poetry speaks of words like gunshots and kisses that taste of ash and running, and although you know it was meant to be metaphorical, you can’t help but think of how very _wrong_ they were.

War tastes sugary sweet and though you suppose they got the _charred_ aspect right, that’s because you like your marshmallows nice and toasted. They cost you less than the chocolate and the graham crackers did too, on account of lasting so long.

His face twisted up in disgust when you offered him the very human delicacy, but he tried half of one anyway. He clearly wasn’t expecting it to be gooey when he bit into it, and you’re going to cherish that expression for _years._

The remaining half was handed back to you while he tried to lick off the marshmallow (another thing you think you’ll keep close to your heart for ages). You finished his and another one with a delighted hum, and although there’s certainly enough to make more, you thought kissing the frown off of him was a better idea.

Which leads to your current thought, that the poets are all _dead wrong._

_Stupid,_ you giggle into the kiss despite your best attempts. _Dead wrong._

War pulls away, or as far away as he can get with your hands in his hair, rumbling, “What do you find so amusing?”

“Nothin. I thought of a dumb pun.” You say. “Promise not to laugh if you kiss me again?”

A dumb pun could mean any number of things, and while War is naturally curious, he seems fine with that. His eyes brighten back up again when you ask for a kiss, and you’re forced to close your eyes. Even then, you can still see the bright white-blue spots on the inside of your eyelids. _Damn_ _Horseman_.

(but oh, you love him)

He still tastes like marshmallows, and under that he’s just. A person. Maybe a person whose running a bit of a fever. You don’t know what that feels like, for obvious reasons, but War has always run hotter than you. It’s nice when its cold outside or when you’re anemic with blood loss. He’s a wonderful heater.

You are intimately aware of what running feels like, and the taste of ash in your mouth as you hide from demons. War is nothing like that.

He feels more like home than your destroyed hometown. His hands on your waist are heavy and comforting, grounding in a strange way, and you respond by burying your fingers in his hair.

Maybe the poets were wrong, but you _do_ admit its something like poetry, the gentle way he leans into your touch, his claws pricking through your worn thin shirt. Things that _should_ incite fear don’t anymore, not with him. Not with _War._ Not in this space between the battles and the Watcher’s nonsense.

You pull away to breathe, taking in his minute smile and messy appearance. You _love_ him. It hurts, but in a hopeful way.

“War.” You say, leaning backwards. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He repeats.

“I’m sappy.”

He raises a single eyebrow, like he expects you to expand upon that thought. Unfortunately, he is _completely_ unaware of how much you adore that particular expression, and how it makes your voice vanish.

_Hadnsome. Handsome? Handsome._ _Ethereal. Devastating. Gorgeous. Powerful. Clever._ You go through a flurry of different adjectives, but “You’re very pretty,” Is what you say out loud.

War snort-laughs in surprise. “You’ve mentioned thinking so.”

“I’m pretty sure most people think so. I’m just reckless enough to say it.” You are, also, just reckless enough to boop him on the nose.

He scowls at the contact, lips pulling back into a snarl that might’ve been intimidating, if your own lips weren’t still buzzing from his kiss. You’re pretty sure its magic.

“Your recklessness will get you into trouble eventually, you know.” He says. Loathe as he is to be compared to his eldest brother, he certainly _acts_ like the Responsible One. On occasion.  

“I have a rather large nephilim protecting me.” You say slowly.

“ _Rather_ ?” He looks you over, a very _War_ way of pointing out your size difference without outright saying “you, tiny human, are calling me _somewhat_ large?”

“I have the biggest, strongest, fiercest nephilim in all the realms protecting me.” You assure, trailing your fingers up his arm. “The _greatest_ \--”

“You two are _revolting._ ” A spindly hand settles on your shoulder. Gnarly and unnaturally stretched, like an old disney movie villain.

_Ah_. You wondered when the Watcher would appear. You glance over at it without so much as a twitch, long since accustomed to it barging in. “We are truly a triad of terribleness.”

Its eyes narrow. “Don’t. Do that.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it’s _flustered._ It doesn’t say anything more, simply staring at you.

You break first, looking over at War to find him glaring at the hand Watcher still clutches your shoulder with. He doesn’t make any moves to dislodge it, but he clearly doesn’t approve.

The Watcher notices it too, after a moment, and curls its fingers around even tighter. Not enough to hurt, not anymore. It would _hate_ it if you said it outloud, but it's gotten gentler.

War growls, low in his throat, and the Watcher laughs.

You _love._

Watcher looks back at you, two sets of eyes still squinted as if its smiling. “If you’re going to waste time, you should be resting.” It says, trying _so hard_ to be unpleasant and scolding. It brings its other hand up, tracing the bags under your eyes with a single finger. “You look like hell. And I am _well_ acquainted with hell.”

“You have such a way with words.” You tell it, brushing away the hand near your face. “So charming.”

War leans forward to press his face against your throat as the Watcher does its best impression of a babies’ first taste of lemon (which, is _shockingly_ spot on despite its lack of a mouth). “Regrettably, the Watcher is correct.”

“You’re both horrible.” They know that, right? They must.

“You’re exhausted.”

“And an idiot.”

Apocalyptic poetry never mentions companions being _rude._

**Author's Note:**

> I Know i wrote this in second person and tagged it as /reader but this is highkey Early Ryen/War alskskskajak I love my oc ships. over on pinterest.hell they have their own ship board & ryen has their own character board bc. aesthetics. 
> 
> also this sort of a new style bc... i wanted to try smth more poetic n whatnot. lmk what u think. or tell me abt how much you love war. either one.
> 
> its late but i'm Regretfully too wired to sleep so i'm watching she-ra & posting Sappy Nonsense.


End file.
